Emcee
by meg143562
Summary: A performer from the Weimar era agreed to be interviewed about his work as the Emcee in the infamous Kit Kat Klub. Years later, another performer from the club wrote a memoir further describing the enigmatic Emcee. The two works are juxtaposed to form a nearly complete timeline of the careers of two Cabaret artists in their quest to both entertain and connect.
1. Chapter 1

Stanford University, 1972

[Beginning of video]

**Interviewer**: Thank you for joining me, Mr...um, Emcee.

**Emcee**: I suppose the pleasure is mine, being invited to such a prestigious American university to be interviewed by such an accomplished graduate student. I must warn you, I won't be as interesting as Elie Wiesel or Coco Shumann.

**Interviewer**: Oh don't be silly, any story from such a dark, turbulent time in history is interesting.

**Emcee**: Ah, but you see, my story begins before everything was dark and turbulent. It was all quite mundane, actually, until about 1933. My life was not a unique one; I was simply a middle-class entertainer. The club I worked at and the people I worked with meant the world to me, especially...

**Interviewer**: Especially what?

**Emcee**: Never mind, I'll talk about him later.

**Interviewer**: ...Ok, shall we begin?

**Emcee**: [chuckles] I thought we already had.

**Interviewer**: Well, I have a some, uh, questions that I'd like you to answer, if you don't mind [unfolding paper]...The first is your name, unless it is "Emcee."

**Emcee**: My name is one of the many things that could have gotten me killed back in Germany, but not for any good reasons. It's a very Jewish name, but I haven't considered myself Jewish since I was a child. I was, however, an Emcee for about ten years. I bet I still would be if Hitler hadn't become Chancellor. I feel as if I'm more of an Emcee than a Jew, so I take the title "Emcee" wherever I go.

Sometimes I wonder what the world would be like if everybody stopped identifying themselves by their names once they begin working and just used their job title.

**Interviewer**: It would be much less personal, wouldn't it?

**Emcee**: I'd say more so. For the most part, we choose what we do for a living. Our work is much more representative of us than the names we are given before anyone even knows who we are.

I much preferred the people who attempted to close my Cabaret because they disliked the content than those who threw bricks at my window because of my name.


	2. Chapter 2

April 19th, 1986

When I was a young man, all I ever did was create. From original skits to choreography, I worked alongside other young performers and our Emcee to come up with material to entertain the Kit Kat Klub's weekend audiences. There were times I'd write enough material in a week to cover two weekends in a row. That was a long time ago; as an old man, I haven't had the drive to write for a long time.

Only ten people attended the Emcee's funeral: myself, Alice, a local rabbi, and a handful of Holocaust survivors we had spoken with at a conference a few years ago (and I'm sure if Sally were still alive, she would have been there too). It was all extremely Jewish; the Emcee would have laughed as the rabbi rocked back and forth reciting _El Maleh Rachamim_ and rolled his eyes every time someone said his ridiculously Jewish name.

Weeks earlier, I had asked him what he wanted done with his body after he died. He responded, "Should I have a choice in the matter, when so many of us did not?"

For a little while, the Emcee considered writing a memoir. He was a good writer and, as he put it, "That goddamned American author got it wrong, so someone needs to make it right." However, he changed his mind after his universally disliked interview.

The world was not ready to hear his story in 1972, which is unfortunate since on April 15th, the only person who could tell it passed away. I wish I could tell the story of the Emcee with integrity, but I just can't.

I can, however, tell the story we shared.

Although this is my memoir, it's also ours, the Emcee's and mine. I hope that when you reach the last page you'll know the smell of the cheap wine, the sound of the thunderous applause, and the heat of the stage lights just as we did. Also, I hope you'll know how it feels for the Emcee's strong arms to pull you close enough to hear his heartbeat through his sequined vest, just as I did.

Finally, I hope that, somehow, I will "make it right."


	3. Chapter 3

**Interviewer**: Where did you say you worked, Mr. Emcee?

**Emcee**: I worked at a sleazy little place known as the Kit Kat Klub. Before I was the Emcee, I was in the ensemble, and before that I was a spectator.

**Interviewer**: This was in the twenties, right?

**Emcee**: Well, my career began in the twenties, but my father and I had been going to that club since its opening in 1911. It was his favorite, mostly because they served cheap whisky and didn't mind that he brought me with him.

**Interviewer**: How old were you then?

**Emcee**: I was about twelve, at least when the Kit Kat Klub first opened. Most of the content of the Cabaret went over my head back then, and by the time I was old enough to understand, it had been highly censored due to the war. It was still enjoyable, though; my father would be drinking his whisky and I'd be sitting on the edge of my seat, mesmerized the performers...

**Interviewer**: Wait, so this was a political Cabaret?

**Emcee**: Um, ours had some political...undertones, but it was not considered a typical German Kabarett, spelled with a "k." Although, it wasn't a French-type Cabaret either, spelled with a "c." We took the spelling of the latter, but the Kit Kat Klub's Cabaret was something in between.

The old Emcee used to have a number that had the French Cabaret flair, with the beautiful dancers and musicians, but had the subject matter of a German Kabarett number:

_My father needs money, my uncle needs money, my mother is thin as a reed._

_But me, I'm sitting pretty - I've got all the money I need..._

One day when I was sixteen, my father took me to the club and bought whisky, just as he always did. He told me he was going to sit with his friends in the back and that I was free to join him or not, so I left him and found an empty table near the stage.

I had never sat so close to the stage before; the music from the band pounded in my ears and the sweat from the beautiful dancers occasionally fell on my bare shoulders. About halfway through the show, the Emcee stepped up to the microphone and said, "I'd like to dance with someone." He scanned the audience. His eyes first landed on a woman in her thirties, but then darted towards me. "You!" he shouted. He jumped from the stage and skipped to my table. Before I could react, the Emcee had pulled me on stage and we were dancing. He asked for my name, but I was too stunned answer.

We spun across the stage, nearly running into the other dancers. The Emcee suddenly stopped, grabbed my shoulders, and turned me towards the audience. "Give this beautiful boy a hand!" he commanded, and the audience complied. It was my first applause.

As I returned to my table, the Emcee said he hoped to see me again. I thought, no need to hope; I will be back.


	4. Chapter 4

1926

I was born in 1905 to the most traditional Catholic family in Germany. All my parents wanted their four children to do was 1. marry a Catholic and 2. have Catholic children. When I told them at the age of eighteen that I didn't want to continue my education, they weren't too upset (I was still planning on having those Catholic children, right?). When I told them I wanted to be a writer, they weren't bothered. However, when they found three years later that I (twenty-one) was meeting a boy in Berlin every Friday evening, I was promptly kicked out of the house. After all, what good is it for a Catholic parent to keep a child who won't produce Catholic grandchildren?

Being kicked out of my home meant being kicked out of my neighborhood. All my friends lived in a sort-of town just barely outside of Berlin. We all attended the same church, which sat on a hill where the steeple could be seen from every point within a two mile radius. There would've been nowhere to hide in town once everybody found out, and news travels quickly in such a small place. With nowhere else to go, I ran to Berlin.

I went to the alley where I met the boy every week, not really expecting to find him there. I assumed he only went there to spend time with me on those Friday evenings. However, there he was on a Sunday night, grasping the waist of another boy as he had grasped mine merely nights before. Before shamefully hanging my head and leaving the alley, I stood there for a minute, waiting to be acknowledged. But neither of them noticed me.

Feeling dejected and lonely, I wandered further into the city. When it began to rain, I took cover under the awning of an outdoor café. The last thing I saw before leaning my head against the side of a wall and closing my eyes were the lights of a sign that read "Kit Kat Klub" reflected in the puddles on the empty street.

Several hours later, I awoke to a soft humming. It was still somewhat dark, so it took me a moment to notice the man standing above me, smoking a cigarette and humming a tune I was sure I'd heard before:

_I saw him in a café in Berlin..._

I was too tired to be startled by him. When he noticed I was awake, he said, "In the future, you can knock on that door," he pointed to the Kit Kat Klub entrance with his cigarette, "and somebody will let you in." He offered me his free hand. I took it and he pulled me up from the ground. It had stopped raining, but everything was still wet. "Tonight was not the night to sleep under the stars."

"If there were any stars to sleep under," I responded, looking up at the streetlights.

The man shook his head. "I can only imagine." He pulled at my damp shirt sleeve; I guess the awning wasn't as big and waterproof as I'd thought. "Come up to my flat with me, just above the club. I have some clothes that might fit you." He began to walk towards the club entrance. When I refrained from following, he turned and said, "Unless you have somewhere else to go." I didn't, so I walked slightly behind him as he led me inside.


	5. Chapter 5

**Interviewer**: What were you doing before you were hired at the Kit Kat Klub?

**Emcee**: I was in school for awhile, but I dropped out to work. The club was not hiring at the time, so I found myself a shelf-stocking job at a local store. Though I still managed to spend every Saturday night at the club. By the time I was eighteen, the Emcee knew my name. He would find me just before the club closed for the night and ask, "Where are your troubles now?" and I'd say "Forgotten!..." He took me backstage on a few occasions. One evening, he took me to the boys' dressing room and sat me down in front of a mirror. A skinny young man subsequently approached me with a small brush and container of what I now know was, um, eye shadow. He said I needed it, so I let him apply the makeup as the Emcee walked away.

**Interviewer**: This was your first time wearing makeup?

**Emcee**: Yes, it was.

**Interviewer**: How did it feel?

**Emcee**: How did it feel? Um, sticky. It was cheap makeup, but it looked alright. The boy, Peter was his name, knew how to apply it.

When the Emcee came back, he nodded to Peter and walked up behind me. I was still facing the mirror. He asked if I liked it and I said, "I could get used to this."

He stepped back and grinned. "I was hoping you'd say that."

**Interviewer**: And that's when you were hired?

**Emcee**: Not quite. I had to do one more thing before I was welcomed to the Kit Kat Klub cast of characters.


	6. Chapter 6

The club was dark, save for the inadequate light coming through a small window above the door. All I could see was where the floor ended and the stage began. The man stepped up onto the stage, only two feet off the ground, and gestured towards the darkness. "It's this way." I followed him through a curtain, a door, and up a flight of stairs. Finally, the man reached forward and an uncovered light bulb illuminated the stairwell. We were standing in front of an entryway covered by an old tablecloth nailed to the wall. The man pushed the cloth aside, revealing his flat. "Leave your troubles outside," he said with a smile.

On one side was a large window, offering a view of the street in front of the club. Unfortunately, most of the window was covered by the Kit Kat Klub sign outside. The opposite wall had nails stuck in it holding various articles of clothing: a long black dress, several white suspenders, a gorilla costume, and multiple Nazi sashes in a variety of sizes.

The man noticed me contemplating the array. "I'm not a Nazi, don't worry," he said, "those are just costumes."

I asked, "Sir, what kind of show do you run here?"

He took the dress from the hook and held it up to his body. "A scandalous one. One with politics, performance, and Hirschfield-approved sex." He placed the dress back on the hook, "I run a Cabaret. Surely you've seen one before."

"No, I haven't," I said with a shrug, "My family never goes to Berlin."

The man gave me a knowing look and said, "Oh, you live in that Catholic village, don't you?"

"Well, I did up until yesterday. I was kicked out."

"Um-hmm." He paused. "What's his name?"

"Excuse me?"

"If you were kicked out of Jesus land, you're either a queer, an Atheist, or a sadomasochist. You don't seem like the rough type and you're not angry enough to have lost your religion." The man opened a wooden chest and pulled out a pair of black dress pants. As he walked up to me, he grabbed a button-down shirt from another hook. "Here, put these on. You can leave your wet clothes in the sink around the corner."

I glanced around the flat. "Um, where should I change?"

He looked confused for a moment, but then nodded his head, "Right, Catholics are hopelessly modest. I'll turn around." He turned and walked towards the window. "Proceed."

As I changed, I told him about the boy I'd been seeing. I thought he might know him, but the man responded, "I've met dozens of boys like that here; none of them are monogamous. All you can do is get used to it."

The pants he gave me cut off just above my ankles and clung to my thighs. "Are the pants supposed to fit like this?" I asked, trying to adjust them.

The man turned back around and examined me. "Really the legs should cut off in the middle of your calves, but they fit you well enough." His eyes darted to an old clock on the wall, and then back at me. "I didn't ask for your name, did I?"

"It's Bobby," I told him. "And yours?"

He pulled another pair of dress pants from the chest and took the suspenders off the hook. "Just call me 'Emcee.'"


	7. Chapter 7

**Emcee **(cont.): The Emcee took my hand and led me out of the dressing room, onto the stage. The club had closed fifteen minutes earlier, so only the performers and bartenders were left.

"Stand at center-stage, boy," the Emcee directed. He pulled a chair to the edge of the stage and sat down. "Do you want to perform here?" he asked. I nodded, but he wasn't satisfied with that. "Say it out loud."

"Yes, I want to perform here." I said.

"Louder," he replied.

"Yes, I want to perform here!" I shouted.

"Stand taller, and breathe so only your stomach moves. Say it again."

"Yes!" I shouted again.

"The volume can't come from your throat. Push the sound out with your diaphragm, near your stomach."

With everything in me, I exclaimed, "Yes, I want to perform here!"

The Emcee sat up a little straighter. "Good," he said, "Now I need you to sing that way."

**Interviewer**: Had you ever sung before?

**Emcee**: Not really…

**Interviewer**: Were you nervous?

**Emcee**: Nervous, no. More like the word, uh... Sorry, I can't think of the word…

**Interviewer**: It's ok.

**Emcee**: Well anyway, I asked the Emcee what he wanted me to sing, and he replied, "Anything." So I sang the first thing that came to my mind:

_I saw him in a café in Berlin,_

_The sort of place where love affairs begin…_

**Interviewer**: Why did you choose that song?

**Emcee**: Frankly, I don't remember. I've always liked it, though, and the Emcee seemed to like it too. As soon as I stopped singing, he said, "Very nice. Sing it again and walk around the stage." So I did. When I was done, he told me to sing it again and walk faster.

**Interviewer**: Do you know why he wanted you to do that?

**Emcee**: Yes. Afterwards, he said he eventually wanted me to be able to sing and dance at the same time. Singing and walking was the first step.

**Interviewer**: So all this was essentially your audition for him.

**Emcee**: It was, yes. When I finished singing the song for the third time, the Emcee stood up and asked me, "Do you still want to perform here?"

I knew what to do that time. "Yes, I want to perform here," I projected to the back of the club.

He walked towards me, stopping just a few inches from my face. "That's good," he said coolly, "because I want you to perform here."

Intimidated: that was the word I was looking for.


	8. Chapter 8

Once Emcee had attached suspenders to his pants and threw his black trench coat over his shoulder, he pushed the tablecloth door open and gestured for me to follow. He didn't put a shirt on, which seemed strange to me since his suspenders were made of rough material and probably left a rash on his chest. "Where are we going, Emcee?" I asked.

"Downstairs. I have to set up the club." He pushed his jet-black hair out of his face, "The other performers will be here in a few hours."

All it took was one switch to light up the entire club: light bulbs of various colors lined the perimeter of the stage and tiny chandeliers swung above the tables. Emcee pulled a key from his pants pocket and went around to the back of the bar. He muttered something to himself as he fiddled with the lock. After a minute, the cabinet doors flew open to reveal an extensive collection of wine bottles. Emcee stepped back and looked over his shoulder at me. "Well, these will last until tomorrow, hopefully." He grabbed a half-empty bottle of red wine from the shelf and walked over to me. "You're the guest," he said, handing over the bottle.

I took it with shaky hands. "Thank you," I said cautiously. Since Emcee didn't bring out any wine glasses, I figured I was just supposed to start drinking. I raised the opening of the bottle to my lips and took a sip.

I guess my face gave away how gross I thought it was, because Emcee laughed. "Cheap, right? It's all we can afford." He reached over and I returned the bottle. He drank several gulps of the subpar wine and placed it on a table. "The old boss used to tip the bottle when we were drinking and nearly choke us."

For the first time that night, I smiled. "Well, thank you for not doing that."

Emcee shrugged, "Eh, I'm not that cruel." He sat down at the nearest table and pulled out the chair beside him. "Here, I'll make a deal with you, Bobby." I sat down and turned to face him. He lightly drummed his fingers on the table as he explained, "I can offer you temporary employment here, which means you could live with the other performers in the boardinghouse around the block. If you like it here, you'll have a few weeks to convince me to keep you. If you don't like it, you'll have a few weeks to find another job and a place to live. Make sense?"

"I, uh, suppose," I stammered. It seemed kind of sketchy that he would offer me a job so quickly. "What would I have to do?"

"I was just getting to that," Emcee said with a grin. "It won't be too hard; you'll just walk on stage, let me introduce you to the crowd, and you'll sing and dance a bit. No big deal."

Now, I'd sung in a church choir for several years, so the prospect of singing wasn't so scary. However, based on Emcee's description of the club ("politics, sex," etc.), I was unsure about what the term "dancing" referred to exactly.

Emcee held out his right hand and leaned forward. "Do we have a deal?"

I didn't have any other options; I shook his hand and said, "Deal."

"Great! Willkommen, bienvenue, welcome to the Kit Kat Klub." He got up and repositioned his chair closer to the stage. "Get up on stage, Bobby," he said, "and show me what you've got."


	9. Chapter 9

**Interviewer**: Was performing at the club everything you imagined?

**Emcee**: It was more than I imagined, actually. I wasn't allowed to perform until I completed a week of what the other performers called "Kit Kat Klub boot camp," where I learned the songs and choreography and how to act around the customers. It was all worth it. Being on stage is unlike anything else. You get your energy from the audience; even when they're silent, you can feel their eyes pushing you forward. Caffeine is nothing compared to an audience.

**Interviewer**: Was the audience often silent?

**Emcee**: Seldom. On a typical day, there would be cheering and clapping throughout the night. Some heckling too, but that was just part of the business. Silence was reserved for more serious performances, and we didn't have many of those.

**Interviewer**: Were certain people on stage targeted for heckling, or was it directed at everyone?

**Emcee**: Anyone who was on stage alone was a target, I think. Sally, one of the younger performers, used to get the worst of it; every profane word imaginable was shouted at her. It upset her at first, but after awhile she got used to it.

**Interviewer**: Did it ever get violent?

**Emcee**: Just a few times. The last time was a year or two after I became the Emcee: A man from the audience grabbed one of my boys and tried to pull him off the stage. I don't remember the details, but I think I pushed the man away and someone else kicked him out of the club.

**Interviewer**: That was the last time?

**Emcee**: Yes, that was the last time. No one tried to hurt my performers after that… Actually, that's not true.


	10. Chapter 10

When I was ten years old, my parents sent me to the local church's summer program. My friends and I jokingly called it "Bible boot camp" because we were assigned pieces of scripture and told to memorize them by the end of the week. After Kit Kat Klub boot camp, however, I never thought of that silly Bible program as "boot camp" ever again.

I wasn't the only one being trained for the Cabaret; two other girls, Texas and Lulu, were hired around the same time I was. We only had one week to learn everything, from the choreography and music to how to interact with the customers. "We build and destroy the fourth wall on a whim," Emcee told us during rehearsal, "so you must always be ready to do what is required: talk to the audience, dance with the audience, dance _on_ the audience." Emcee gave us only one restriction regarding audience interaction: "Don't hook up with people after every show."

"Why?" Texas asked, pushing her near-platinum hair behind her ears.

Emcee strutted up to her. "Our patrons are rough. Having your tits grabbed," he reached forward and clenched her right breast in his hand, "like this every night leaves bruises." He let go; Texas pulled her shirt forward and traced over the temporary handprint he'd left.

Now, if anyone else grabbed our genitals without our permission, there would have been a problem. It was different with Emcee; he was only preparing us for work, helping us. For Texas, Lulu, and I, any apprehension we had had about our new boss faded with every smile or wink he'd throw our way.

I wish I could say our first performance went off without a hitch, but that would have been too lucky. During the number Emcee called "Money," all the performers were on stage and I, being shorter than even some of the girls, was in the front. As the song progressed, three of us had to crawl to the edge of the stage and reach our arms into the audience as if to beg for tips. While the girls on either side of me, Rosie and Fritzie, reached out and got cash in return, an intimidatingly large pair of hands took hold of my forearm and wouldn't let go. The hands began pulling, and I couldn't pull myself back. My chest tightened as I was dragged into the crowd of calloused strangers, the smell of whisky clinging to their skin. I thought I was as good as dead.

Just before I hit the ground, however, someone wrapped their arms around my waist and jerked me away from the hands. I was shoved back onto the stage, and Rosie and Fritzie helped me to my feet. The musicians had stopped playing, and we all watched as Emcee roughly escorted the man out of the club. Streetlight streamed through the door for the moment it took to throw him out.

Emcee calmly walked up the center stage stairs and turned to the audience. "Where were we?" he asked.

Somebody screamed, "The Money Song!" and Emcee gestured to the band to resume playing. We picked up where we left off:

_Money makes the world go around, the world go around, the world go around._

_Money makes the world go around, that clinking clanking sound…_

At the end of the night, after just about everyone had left the club, I returned to the dark stage and sat cross-legged at center-right. It was finally quiet, but I still heard the crowd roaring.

I could smell the cigarette smoke before I could make out Emcee's silhouette in the inadequate light coming through the small window above the door. "An eventful first night, to say the least," he said, sitting down beside me. He handed me his half-finished cigarette. "Here, it's my last one."

"Why are you giving it to me?" I asked.

Emcee grinned, "When someone offers you half of a cigarette, you shouldn't ask questions."

I took a drag; the boy from the alley had taught me how to smoke. "Thank you," I said, "for this and for saving me from…"

"Ah, don't worry about it," Emcee interrupted. "Really, you could have handled it yourself if I'd let you."

"I'm not so sure."

We were silent for a while. I wasn't sure how late it was, but I heard the back door slam a few times as the remaining performers left the club. Finally, Emcee whispered, "I love being on stage when it's empty and dark," and laid down at center stage.

I laid at center-right, trying to understand.


	11. Chapter 11

**Interviewer**: When did you become the Emcee?

**Emcee**: Oh, about 1925 or so. It was quite a shock when it happened…

**Interviewer**: Why?

**Emcee**: [sigh] I'm getting to it. You see, we all lived in the same boardinghouse, and we awoke one day to our landlady, Fraulein Schneider, knocking on our doors. She kept shouting, "I have a letter, you must get up!" So we all congregated in the dining room and she read the letter out loud. It was from our Emcee; he wrote that he had left for America.

**Interviewer**: He left?

**Emcee**: Yes, without properly saying goodbye. In the letter, he wrote that he was being threatened to either leave the country or have his Cabaret shut down.

**Interviewer**: In 1925? Did Nazis even exist him back then?

**Emcee**: Well, the German Workers' Party did. And as they say, "First, they came for the communists," and everyone knew our Emcee was a communist of sorts.

**Interviewer**: Oh… how did everyone know he was a communist?

**Emcee**: In our Cabaret, some of us wrote little skits for in between songs. The Emcee always wrote skits about money, and there would be a mini communist revolution at the end of each one. He was… not brilliant, no. Very funny. I guess that's what it is.

But like I was saying, he also wrote in the letter that I was to become the Emcee. It was odd. I'd only worked at the club for five years; some of the performers had been working there for nearly two decades! It seemed strange that he'd make me the Emcee without even telling me why. That made it very difficult to take the job.

**Interviewer**: So what convinced you to take it anyway?

**Emcee**: I was, um, strong-willed back then, and a bit angry as well. I thought I would never leave the Kit Kat Klub, that I'd always fight back and defend our art.

**Interviewer**: Because your Emcee didn't. You must have felt abandoned by him.

**Emcee**: Yes, all of the performers did. And I thought that I'd be a better man than him.


	12. Chapter 12

1930

On October 3rd, 1930, I wore heels for the first time.

Texas and I crouched in a wooden box for ten minutes, our three-inch heels with wads of cotton glued to the sides squeezing our feet. When Emcee flung the top open, Texas poked her head out:

_Beedle de deedle dee dee!_

I followed:

_Beedle de deedle dee dee!_

Emcee joined us:

_Beedle dee deedle dee, beedle dee deedle dee dee!_

_Beedle dee, dee dee dee, two ladies!_

Maybe it was because I was in a corset and heels, or maybe it was because Texas' breasts had lipstick kisses pressed all over them, but the audience roared with laughter. Rosie and Helga pulled a white bed sheet in front of the Emcee, Texas, and I. Behind us was a giant light on wheels, so the audience could see our silhouettes on the sheet. The three of us acted out an orgy of sorts while the audience spilled their wine and whisky in hysterics.

I thought I had a handle on the whole walking-three-inches-off-the-ground thing. During bows, however, gravity took over. I slipped to the left, and then fell right into Emcee.

He shoved me back to the left with his shoulder then grabbed my arms to pull me upright. "How are the heels working out for you, Bobby?" he asked so the audience could hear.

"Just fine, Emcee, although," I lifted my left foot and contemplated the bottom of my shoe, "the white stuff on the floor is very slippery." A series of 'ohhhs' echoed around the club. After four years, I knew exactly what to say.

Emcee crossed his arms, "I'm sure I don't know what you mean." He flashed a smile at me before turning to the audience and concluding the show, "Auf wiedersehen, a bientot, goodnight everyone!" One last, graceful bow and we exited stage left.

I returned to the stage when only the familiar, inadequate light coming from the window above the door lit the room. It had become routine for me to sit in the near-dark and wait for Emcee to join me. We'd lay on the stage, sometimes speaking, sometimes not.

A light flickered from stage left. Emcee kicked the curtain aside, holding a candle in one hand and a half-smoked cigarette in the other. Under his arm was a notebook, discolored around the corners. "Here Bobby, take this," he said as he held his cigarette in front of my face. He took the notebook with his now free hand and placed it in front of me. "Open it."

I gingerly turned the pages and found dozens of short scripts written in tiny print. "Did you write these?" I asked.

"Ha, I wish." Emcee sat beside me, "These were written by the previous Emcee."

Until then, I had no idea there had been another Emcee. "Who was he?"

"Oh, an older guy, but young at heart. He had the creepiest smile I've ever seen." Emcee flipped to the latter half of the notebook, "He received several threats after we performed this one," he said, holding the candle just close enough so we could read the top line, 'If You Could See Her.' "The last line sparked the controversy, 'If you could see her through my eyes, she wouldn't look like a Commie at all.' Meanwhile, the lady in question would be wearing a gorilla suit."

I laughed, "I saw it in your flat! I wondered what it was for." There were only a few empty pages in the back of the notebook. "Why did he leave the club?" I slowly turned the blank pages to the end, "He couldn't have been finished writing."

Emcee blew out the candle. "The threats from the German Workers' Party eventually scared him, so he went to America."

The stage creaked slightly as he lay down beside me. I shut the notebook and placed it on his stomach. "Do the threats scare you?"

"No, Bobby, they don't," he said quickly. "As long as there's an audience, we're not going anywhere. At least, I'm not."


End file.
